CASSANDRA WOKE EARLY, aching all over, having fallen asleep propped up on her bolster with the letters still on her lap. What had she dreamed of? It was just out of reach, but she knew it to be dark and uncomfortable. She rose, dressed, and, unable to shake the mood—indeed, somehow keen to indulge it—she crossed the landing and opened the door to Tom’s room.
With sudden force she was returned to the turmoil she had felt there that Christmas so long ago, when she had stood on this very spot and quailed at the prospect of marriage, railed at the thought of leaving her family. That moment was a stain on her personal history. Her sense of guilt over it was, even now, enormous, overwhelming; it could still quite crush the air out of her. Though—for once trying to be kind, as if she were talking to a niece and not just herself—had she not, all her life, been but the victim of events?
For had they taken the other turn, those dark thoughts she had harbored could have been classified as doubts, pure and simple: the doubts that any soon-to-be-married young woman might respectably have. She would have been able to tell herself then, in that life, that it was perfectly natural. We women worry, all of us, about everything—especially marriage. After all, what was there more important than that? She could have looked back—from the comfort of their fireside with her husband beside her, from a nursery filled by their own, dear children—and seen that moment as a nothing. As one small, private stumble on the rosy path to conjugal felicity.
But life had not done that. It had robbed her and, in so doing, snatched away any presumption of innocence. And whenever she thought of that morning—which was not often; she tried to suppress it—she saw only her own apostasy, could only believe that her doubts had been heard and taken as curses. And was covered in shame.
She walked into the plain, simple bedroom. It had been home to so many Fowle boys since that one; a whole generation had grown there, then flown. There was no trace of Tom now. Although—she moved past the heavy oak bedstead and peered up—yes! The very same indifferent hunting print. Perhaps he never would have brought it with him to their vicarage near Ludlow. She should not, after all, have worried about living with that.
The cheval glass in the alcove by the fireplace was a later addition: a testament to the vanity of the younger generation. Her Tom would certainly never have had need of it. She peered in. Her old face was reflected back at her. And there, over her shoulder, were Dinah’s narrowed, knowing eyes.
Cassandra jumped. “Dinah! Goodness.” She turned round, faced the maid. “You took me quite by surprise!”
“Miss Austen.” The negligible bob, a curt sniff. “Is there something I can do for you, m’m? Lost your bearings again, is it?”
Another suggestion of her incipient senility. “Not at all. I…” It was simply easier to pretend it was so. “Yes. I am sorry. I cannot remember why it was I came in here.”
Dinah looked satisfied. “Been looking for you, m’m. Was quite worried when you weren’t in your room.” Her room! The letters—unhidden! “So I cannot help you at all?”
“No. Thank you, Dinah. I am quite well. In fact, I think I may have a walk before breakfast.”
“As you wish, m’m.” Dinah creaked a knee before vanishing down the back stairs.
Cassandra retreated back to her chamber and, though she feared that particular horse had already bolted, collected the papers and hid them under the mattress. And she realized it was true: Some fresh air was just what she needed. A good walk would always buck one up.
An encouraging smell drifted across from the bakehouse, but otherwise the household was quiet. Isabella, no doubt, still languished in bed. Cassandra met no one on the landing, took the stairs as quietly as possible, and stepped around Pyramus, who was stretched, luxuriously, out on the rug. The dog struggled to his feet. She did not greet him, certainly did not invite him, and yet, it seemed, he would be coming. They carefully negotiated the chaos of the hall and together set off into the morning.
To the right, past the church, was the village, which would, of course, already be busy. There would be plenty of dear, familiar faces up there who would be more than happy to stop what they were doing and talk. But, huddling into her shawl, Cassandra at once turned left, her companion padding beside her, over the bridge and down onto the towpath beside the canal. She had villagers aplenty of her own back in Chawton. What there was not at home—the duck pond, though charming, could not help its own limitations—was the joy of a waterside walk.
How things had changed since that first Christmas when she was staying with Tom. Back then, there had been only a humble little river. This canal, now all boats and business, was but a plan and a controversy. She remembered the debates about it while sewing with Eliza in the drawing room every evening. Fulwar was, of course, loudly, in favor. He strode around, declaiming: The March of Progress! The Wonders of Communication! The new varieties of employment! While old Mr. Fowle sat in his chair and worried about the crime and corruption it would bring. And Tom?
Tom was greatly interested in the engineering of it, but otherwise unengaged. Though he liked to imagine their future together, he did not talk much of the future in general. Now that Cassandra thought about it, he never once showed any interest in the new century that was upon them or the changes, the revolutions, it might bring. How queer she had not noticed that before. A filthy, thin little lad rushed past her, jumped onto a coal boat, and got his ear clipped. She stopped and stood, watched the sunlight dapple the water, and looked over to the island, where a duck sat on eggs and her drake busied around with a beak full of twigs. A large sigh escaped her and, hearing herself—where did that come from?—she was suddenly reminded that she was now an old lady. With all this reminiscing, she had quite forgotten the fact. How foolish to hang about in the damp at this hour of the morning. If she did not keep moving she would doubtless catch a chill, and then where would she be? She pressed on toward the wharf, but that looked far too crowded at this time in the morning. Perhaps she would turn and go into the village after all.
She looked up at the bridge before her, and noticed a little black figure. Why, Isabella was out even before her! So not languishing in her room at all.
“Miss Fowle!” They could walk back home together, Cassandra thought. “Miss Fowle!”
Her thin voice could not carry above the canal noise. She tried waving, but Isabella did not seem to notice.
“Miss Fowle!” Pyramus barked, trying to be helpful.
Isabella ducked away as a gentleman approached her. Cassandra was closer now and could see them more clearly. This was not a person she immediately recognized. Indeed, was he even a gentleman? She could not quite tell. He was not a tall man, quite stocky. He and Isabella had fallen into what looked like deep conversation. Cassandra left the towpath and hurried up to the lane. Did Isabella need rescuing? If only her legs would move a bit faster.
“Miss Fowle!” She reached the bridge. “Isabella! I am here!”
But … how very odd: Isabella and the mysterious “gentleman” were no longer there.
BREAKFAST WAS SILENT. Isabella, forbearing to mention either meetings or gentlemen, seemed mournful and subdued. Her eyes were swollen; her complexion was mottled: She had clearly been crying. She must miss her father—and, lately, her oppressor?—more than anyone could understand. Dinah, unnaturally attentive that morning, fussed about. Isabella sipped the tea that was poured for her but did not touch any food, and when the clock chimed the hour, made her excuses and left. Cassandra wondered that the early-morning outing had not inspired an appetite in Isabella. She herself was quite hungry, and ate well, though alone. When finished, she went out into the hall.
The door was shut on Fulwar’s study, but the sound of voices came through it. That was odd. She had not heard any arrivals. Intrigued, Cassandra moved over and loitered a little.
“Six times seven is forty-two,” a small boy was chanting.
“And rise and shine?” Isabella seemed to have pulled herself together.
“Seven times seven is forty-nine!”
“Well done, Arthur. You have practiced well this week. I am pleased with you.”
Of course Isabella took in pupils. She had been raised by her mother to be a good daughter of the parsonage, and a good daughter of the parsonage she had turned out to be.
How the village would miss having this family at its center. To lose a much-loved vicar was one blow; to lose his womenfolk quite another. Fulwar was a popular preacher, an active and, on the whole, fair politician, but he had spent much of his week riding to hounds. It was the women who provided the vital care the parishioners needed: the broth for the sick, the clothes for the poor, the basic education. Cassandra smiled with satisfaction and thought again how the Fowles were like the Austens, in so many ways.
As it seemed the household would make no sort of claim on her this morning, Cassandra went once again back to her room. A maid had been in: Her pot was emptied; there was fresh water in her washstand. She rushed to the mattress and lifted it: Yes, the letters were still there, undisturbed. The one great indulgence that had been afforded Miss Murden was a rather threadbare armchair beneath the little window—perhaps the poor woman herself had worn it so thin? Cassandra settled herself down to return to her labors.